Jimmy Panic and the Bible of Dreams
by emily.down
Summary: Takes place during Hounds. Jim is captured and interrogated by Mycroft Holmes, but he requires the help of a special someone to make him talk. Just a possibility. Title inspired by Sylvia Plath.


_Just a crazy what-if scenario. Molly is Mycroft's agent and she is a bit of an oddity. She is given a rather ludicrous assignment. And she really doesn't want to do it. _

_Review if it tickles your fancy :D  
_

* * *

"What is it now? The detective? You are off the Sherlock job, anyways. You would be endangering nothing and no one. Unless you really do fear Jim Moriarty. Is that it? You're suddenly afraid of the man you used to _date_?"

Molly frowned and turned around to glare at Charles.

"I didn't recall you being part of this conversation. I'd rather you kept your opinions to yourself."

"Oh, you still think you have authority around here, how adorable."

"Do you want me to _make_ you shut up? It's been a while."

"Now, now, children, let's not argue, not right now when we are pressed for time," Mycroft interrupted them impatiently, rising from his chair.

"Miss Hooper, I do hate to repeat myself. I need your services, in fact I require them immediately, for a critical situation that bears no delay or personal resistance. I hope you would not refuse to assist in any way possible, keeping in mind you share some responsibility in the matter and that it was only by my careful intervention that you weren't more thoroughly sanctioned. Mr. Rawley, if you have nothing better to add, you may leave. I do not need your input at the moment, nor will I ever."

Charles was anything but pleased at this back-handed insult and he didn't particularly like Molly's triumphant glower either, but he got up eventually and trudged silently towards the door, cursing inwardly. He had never liked Hooper. And he almost hated Holmes.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop smirking, you silly child. Your feud is getting rather stupid."

Molly schooled her features back into the usual polite nonchalance.

"Stupid as it might be, you find him just as insufferable as I do," she stated boldly, waiting for him to deny it. Of course he didn't.

"I was hoping that my previous speech impressed upon you the urgency of this matter and the fact that I hold you partly responsible."

Molly grimaced and mouthed something along the lines "very impressed".

"Because I do believe you are to blame indirectly. You know I'm right. You "screwed up royally", as you would put it, and I'm sure you wish to make it right again. At least I know you wish to keep working for me even if it pains you to admit. I also know you're ashamed. Don't be. Many before you have failed me. I am accustomed to it."

Molly's nostrils flared slightly but she only shrugged and looked down upset.

"I know you're generally a good agent. But I know you see yourself a cut above the average, just because you think you're a self-creation. Don't have to give me that look. I'm not trying to humble you. Although a good dose of reality wouldn't hurt. I just want to do my job, Miss Hooper. I'm sure that's one of your prerogatives as well. In fact, the only thing I really liked about you was your commitment to the job. I hope I don't end up despising you completely."

Molly pressed her palm to her forehead and stared blankly into space.

"I can't believe we are having this conversation."

"And I can't believe we still keep you around with that attitude. Then again, I do like a bit of haughtiness. That is, intelligent haughtiness."

"Please stop, Sir," Molly interrupted him putting her hand up, "it's bad enough you are addressing me with _Miss_. I thank you for your astute observations, I didn't know you still regarded me as such or even gave me that much attention after the entire debacle. As for Moriarty, I remain unconvinced. I know what you'll say, but I'm telling you it will be in vain. He won't be the least bit persuaded. I can guarantee it will be pointless."

Mycroft's eyes brightened with anger.

"But _fine_, why not? Let's not be _too_ pessimistic about it," she added in defeat, looking down still.

"Glad to see you've come to your senses."

"Not quite," she muttered.

* * *

They kept him in a remote cell in the middle of an underground level in a building surrounded by warehouses, property of the government, on the outskirts of London.

He was watched constantly, of course, and given only the strictly necessaries, including food, water, change of clothes, sinister walks up and down a flight of stairs towards the upper level (just as windowless as the one below, but slightly more furnished), one shower every two days and a dismal toilet in an adjacent room where he had to relieve himself in front of dozens of eyes watching him on camera and a guard standing in the doorway. It was perverse and unusual. Even for a prisoner.

It was a mix of quiet decency with the most horrid and despicable obscenity. And it was strangely mesmerizing. The lack of privacy was almost as intoxicating as an extremely difficult game of catch. He would have fully immersed himself into it and even enjoyed it if he weren't so hard to please. It was good, even great, exercise, but at one point, he would get bored. The most dreadful torture of all. And there was nothing he could do about it. He'd known from the start that they were counting on this, if nothing at all, that he'd get desperately bored, or bored to desperation and slip up. They had given up on torture after two weeks, so they were really out of time then. But he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction because not giving them satisfaction did _not_ bore him. On the contrary. Yes, it would be damn hard to stay put, but a challenge was supposed to be hard. The most dreadful torture of all.

He'd started scribbling Sherlock's name on the walls as of late, as a distraction and as a means to get Mycroft down there again to talk to him, to _really_ talk to him. Not just interrogate him. He wanted the whole dish; (practically no) childhood, rebellious and relentless adolescence, depressing adulthood and stagnation in college, the experimental years…everything that a brother could divulge.

So far no luck, but he knew there was a bit of stirring up there. He knew they were shifting awkwardly, treading on eggshells, moving at a maddening pace, making no progress. He knew Mycroft was only days, maybe hours away.

He was going to wait and shower and groom himself a little for the arrival of the elder Holmes. He felt it coming, any day now, like a surge of unknown pleasure, waiting to be confirmed.

And lo and behold, he had barely woken up that morning and he already had a visitor. It's almost as if the gods were spoiling him.

He sat staring at the wall where he had sculpted Sherlock's name in so many cursives. He was admiring his own craft.

He heard steps down the corridor, then the door opening. He smiled, shutting his eyes, thanking his intuition, relaxing his muscles, sniffing the air slightly in contentment only to smell –

Odd. Not Mycroft's usual polished smell. And yet, he knew that smell from somewhere. It was hard to forget it, the smell of death. But that was impossible.

"Good morning, Jim."

And yet it _was_ possible. Her voice hit his back like a strong gust of wind.

He almost had a small shock when he turned around and saw none other than Molly Hooper, meek little mortician, standing in front of him expectantly. All his senses were telling him she was not allowed and would never be allowed to enter this place, much less see him. And yet it was possible.

Thousands of questions bombarded him at once, causing his mind to stop momentarily and close in on itself, preventing him from having any visible reaction. That's how you knew Moriarty was truly taken by surprise, when he kept still, transfixed and absent.

"You're looking well," she added, drawing the chair from the table.

Jim's eyes were so empty one might think he was looking through her, but in actuality he was staring at every inch of her body with the hunger and turmoil of a child, arrested by a stranger.

She sat down.

"Please," she said, pointing at his chair.

At her sudden polite beckoning, he snapped and started breathing again. Molly was wearing a black shirt tucked into her blue jeans, the first two buttons loose, the sleeves pulled over her elbows, a silver watch around her wrist. Her hair was pulled in a messy bun, hairs coming out in different directions. A pair of sunglasses perched on her head, holding her wild strands in place.

"I know this is awkward for the both of us, but let's just get through this," she told him, looking straight into his eyes with an almost innocent detachment.

Maybe it wasn't Molly, maybe it was … just his imagination. The thought, as soon as it struck him, made him sick to his stomach.

He stood still, narrowing his eyes at her. This wasn't Molly. He was sure. He'd known her too well, slept in her bed, slept with her several times, eaten from her fridge, worn her clothes for fun and watched horrible soaps with her on the couch, holding Toby on his stomach like a goddamn piece of furniture. No, no, no, no.

This was another one of their inane tricks.

"Come on, wouldn't you rather sit down and talk? It feels stupid just staring at you while you try to figure out if they put something in your food."

He still kept quiet, watching her with increasing loathing and …resentment.

"Blame Mycroft for this spurious meeting. I told him this was a bad idea, but he wouldn't have it," she added, rolling her eyes. "He probably just wanted to see your reaction. It's quite unprofessional."

She stretched herself slightly and without giving any warning, she pulled up her legs and rested her feet on the edge of the table.

"Sorry, it was a long walk, getting here, I'm a bit worn out," she explained, wiping her glasses with a small tissue from her pocket.

Moriarty knew he hated her right away. Infinitely. Uncontrollably. He had never hated anything so quickly and so definitely. The very sight of her nauseated him. The sight of this…Molly. Relaxed, detached, slightly annoyed, can't-be-bothered-with-you-little-traitor. The hussie, the little hussie. The disgusting trollop. The whore. The fucking whore.

He clenched his fists until he felt his knuckles coming out of his skin. White anger was washing over the room and over her, over her stupid glasses and her idiotic, intelligent, composed, bemused face in scalding, hot waves.

"You know, I'm not really sure what to tell you. It's so odd, seeing you in this state. I would derive some satisfaction if we were in a different context. As it is, this is plenty uncomfortable for me too. Not to mention unfavourable. So let's just sit down and try to be reasonable."

A sudden smirk broke his face in two.

"Oh, they're good. They're very good. They saved you for last. Their trump card. They knew I'm narcissistic enough to care," he almost spat.

Molly smiled good-humouredly. "Thank you. I feel special now."

His heart skipped a beat. He had used that tone, that voice, the way Molly used to talk.

"Mycroft's prized little jewel, is that it?" he asked bitterly, fighting against the urge to just lunge at her and snap her neck.

Molly frowned. "Oh, no way. Don't give yourself that much credit. You don't need a jewel to fool you."

Jim grabbed the chair with trembling hands.

"Congratulations, little one. You are the more accomplished actor," he said through gritted teeth.

_How, how, how, how, how, how,_ how – was what was going through his head.

"Thanks. That's something coming from you. Although I don't think you were really acting all the time. I saw you enjoying yourself a little during Law and Order."

Jim gripped the chair tighter.

_How did she fool me, how did she fool me, how did she fool me….._

"The sex got you a little happy too. Because we're all weird in bed, us insecure, shy, self-deprecating working girls. We're just waiting to let go and become another person. That sort of turned you on."

Jim's eyes widened. Could it be possible for anger to become so intense that you stop feeling it altogether?

"I'll admit, I liked you. You were handsome and clean, you wore nice clothes and you were attentive, not to mention really funny. Well, your glaringly obvious intentions were funny too. And you had the worst timing – you always slipped when I was most alert. But you were spectacular at trivia. So I enjoyed you quite a bit."

_I enjoyed you quite a bit. I enjoyed you quite a bit. I enjoyed you quite a bit. _

He was going to break the chair in two.

"I know you're upset, it's understandable. But here's something to comfort you. It's not that I'm that great at what I do. It's just that I picked the right identity. Sherlock himself has been working with me for over two years and he hasn't got a clue. I just embody whatever he wishes to see. I did the same with you. So it's really no big deal. Really. Mycroft actually thinks I'm a moron. But he would say that about you too if he had the chance."

And then he just sat down. He sat down and placed his hands on the table.

His eyes were burning her skin. And her defiant smile was burning his.

"You mentioned it's unfavourable for you to be here?" he asked all of a sudden.

Molly nodded her head and pulled her feet down, facing him completely.

"I really wanted to get away from all this. I wanted a clean start."

There was a pause in which neither said anything.

But then Jim's wound was growing wider and wider and there was no way, no fucking way he was going to let her live. He was going to get out, no matter what it took, and kill her with his bare hands, strangle her with her cat on top, stand mercilessly over her body and watch the air go out of her lungs. He wanted it now. He wanted to do it now. Now, now, now. He couldn't bear it, not a minute longer.

"Haven't you felt like that sometimes? Don't you want a clean start too? I mean this entire ordeal will go away by itself, as all things naturally go, and then, don't you want a change?"

Oh, God, how he loathed her. Those thin lips, those wet, slimy brown eyes, those dimples, those bloody dimples, that sickening sallow complexion. She was a corpse, a decaying corpse, just like those that populated her morgue. A decaying corpse that refused to die. She smiled, chuckled, spoke, touched her forehead, wiped her glasses, jiggled her left leg, scratched the table with her nail, did everything in such a mechanical and yet natural, normal way that it made him think she was a dead woman, living just because she had decided not to die. A dead woman who had managed to reach that powerful state of living beyond all means, beyond all expectations, beyond all decency, something he couldn't yet –

"Let me ask you this then, does it really pay to frolic around England without purpose? You only ever stop to spend some time with your beloved Sebastian and then what? Back on the road. Even if you don't have to move at all. I know how it feels. They tell you to stay and wait for things to unravel. So of course you don't."

"Mycroft really believes then that this cheap trick will somehow get the better me? That his little whore will break me?" he interrupted her angrily.

Molly raised an eyebrow in disgust. But then she couldn't help smiling again. This was objectively amusing. No, not the name calling. She resented that. But the fact that Mycroft had been partially right.

"Of course he does. Even though I told him it wouldn't. Me, I think it's a waste of time. I know it can't lead to any results. Although you did just call me a whore. So I _must_ be doing something right."

"You are. Trying my patience, that is. You've come here to prove what exactly?"

Molly pressed a hand to her chest. "Prove? What do you mean prove?"

Moriarty's left eye twitched.

"Wait, you think I asked Mycroft for this assignment?" she asked surprised. "Really? Even now? Look, you lost one round. You can't just grasp at thin air. He made me do it. I had no desire to relive our _magical_ moments."

"You are really enjoying it, rubbing it in my face, it's almost unprecedented," Jim spoke, his voice growing lighter and softer, acquiring that well-known humorous tone that had almost disappeared.

"Oh, good, you're getting back to normal. I was wondering," she said, giggling slightly.

Another tremor shook him from head to toe. She had applied that voice again and that look, that doe-eyed look.

"Aren't you a bit concerned I might destroy you?" he asked nonchalantly.

Molly paused and looked down at her hands. "You'll probably tear me to pieces. See, another reason for not wanting to come. But I did anyway. That's why Mycroft hired me, you know. I'm a bit stupid, a bit reckless and a bit of a nuisance. Believe it or not, this isn't just me interrogating you although I'd be foolish not to admit it's mainly that. But it's also a bit of my casual social behaviour. This is what I do in tricky situations. Have you read _Crime and Punishment_? Of course you have, you're a cliché. Do you remember Porfiry Petrovich? The pestering, bumbling, clumsy detective? I suppose that's me. I guess that's why Mycroft thinks I'm overly vain. I like to make such comparisons."

"Then let me make another comparison," he began gravely, "I am no Raskolnikov, if you were counting on that. I am more of a Svidrigailov, if you will, and I will senselessly and irrevocably end you, no remorse and suicide needed. I will turn your skin into my upholstery and I will relish it as much as I enjoy any other such personal _adjustments_. It will remind me of my mistake, certainly, but it _will_ be worth the bother."

Molly inclined her head slightly, watching him behind the shadow of her lashes.

"Should that make me Dunya Raskolnikova, then?" she asked, slightly piqued. "It sounds like Dunya. Be careful. Svidrigailov couldn't go through with it. He realized Dunya is far better. And far worse."

That did it. That did it for him.

He lunged at her and grabbed both her arms pulling her towards him roughly.

"I will kill everything that is dear to you. I will feed you Sherlock's entrails as first course and then his brother for dessert."

Molly flinched slightly, the intensity of his gaze making her almost dizzy. She believed him and it both angered and pleased her.

Still, she was who she was.

"What about second course?" she asked innocently, glowering.

Jim grabbed her chin and brought her into his range. He wondered fleetingly why no one was stopping him. Molly had insisted the guards should only come in at her call.

She moved her head from his grasp and tried to pull her hands away.

He was surprisingly strong and she found it hard to escape his tight grip, but she had some experience with violent subjects.

With a swift move, she elbowed him in the ribs, stuck the other one in his throat and weighed him down on the table.

They struggled a bit more until she was half-lying on top of him and he was immobilised by her heavy body and strong arms. He didn't put up much a fight since what he wanted was to get to her neck. And face. And everything. And for that he needed her to relent.

She saw he was not being very violent and that he was only consumed by an irrational, passionate hatred which manifested itself in an absurd fit of desperation.

She almost weakened her grip, meaning to try and talk him out of whatever his roaming eyes intended to do, when, having sought this opportunity, his left hand grabbed a good chunk of her hair and pulled her head down.

"I want you," he suddenly rasped, almost unaware of what he was doing. "Not just dead. Although that would tickle my fancy the most. I want you first as you are. I want to taste you and smell you and devour you and then spit you out, every piece, but I wouldn't put you back together. I'd keep you disfigured and helpless."

Molly's breath hitched slightly. She would be lying if she said she didn't find his psychotic ramblings slightly tempting. She liked the insane ones, but she usually liked to win more. She really was vain.

And more to the point, she didn't really like the insane ones. She just trained herself to do it, or made herself believe she did; it was required for an actress of her calibre. It wasn't hard, especially since Jim had those puppy eyes she otherwise adored.

"No, you wouldn't," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I told you you'd never go through with it. You have to romanticize everything. But _fine_, let's indulge you: You'd probably want me so much and so fully that you'd never really devour me at all. Once you got a taste, you'd either abandon me completely for the sake of your sanity, or you'd devour yourself."

Jim's eyes widened in shame and desire. He didn't even really want her and yet he had wanted to say it, he had felt like saying it either way, he had wanted her and would want her still. Because he could fool himself into wanting her and the problem was, the real problem was that she could make him want to fool himself into wanting her. Anything just not to kill her. Because he knew he'd get out and kill her. And the only way to stop himself was to somehow turn his hate into desire.

Molly punched him in the jaw, knocking him out of his balance, and he released her.

She raised herself quickly and pushed him off the table as if he were a crumb of bread.

He slid right off it onto the cold floor.

She coughed and started dusting herself off, after which she checked her watch.

"I _told_ Mycroft it would be a waste," she said, more to herself. "And that moron Charlie is going to smirk at me again. Oh, well, I might come in tomorrow or some other time to see what's to be done."

"Just because I am stupid enough to work for a Holmes," she muttered, straightening the collars of her shirt.

"Leaving already?" he asked, pulling himself up.

"I'm only allowed half an hour."

"How...convenient."

"I know. They really _do_ think of everything, don't they? Well, I guess it was nice reacquainting ourselves."

Jim leant against the wall and nodded his head in disgust, trying to dissolve into it.

"I'm sorry for, uh, all the theatrics. A big reveal is a big reveal," she muttered, pulling a hand through her dishevelled hair. "Better luck next time."

She headed towards the door and knocked four times.

"Bye, bye, Jim. See you at the Fox," she said in her sing-song, Molly-the-pathetic-Wolly voice. The same Molly that didn't exist. The same Molly that had never existed. He cringed. It made his skin crawl. And his stomach stir pleasantly, unwillingly.

* * *

That night, the guards came in to take him to the showers.

The front wall was, as usual, scribbled here and there with Sherlock's name.

But the wall on the right was all but filled with Molly Hooper's melodious name.


End file.
